


Little Dandelion

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Big Brother Dean, Gratuitous use of 'little brother' because I'm weak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Sam is struggling, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: Sam knows it's not real but he still can't escape it; he can feel it coming on but can't do anything to stop it.Luckily, he has Dean to pick up his pieces when he falls apart.Set in a vague, late S12 timeline.





	Little Dandelion

**Author's Note:**

> My poor, beautiful Sam. I relate to him so much, I guess. When I'm having lows, my go to therapy is writing Sammy having the same. Dean is his safe place, and they are mine. 
> 
> Unbeta'd because this is a rush job for my sanity. I'll tidy it up over the next few days, and thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Title from Audioslave's song _Dandelion_ because it's another of my safe places, especially of late.  
>  ( _Rest in peace Chris_ )

Sam can’t shake the it – the nagging, tugging, threatening feeling like he’s about to be pulled under, like the water level is rising and the waves ripple and tickle at his chin, so very close to drowning. He can still breathe, so he tries to ignore it, but the water is heavy, too, crushing, and it weighs down on his chest, makes him feel as though he needs to try harder just to move his limbs through the thickness of it. It puts him on edge, expecting at any minute that what he’s doing won’t be enough, that the waves will spill into his lungs and choke him. It makes it hard to get through the day but even harder to get through the night, where the darkness feels much too much like the inky waters he’s constantly treading. He’s tired and spaced out and jumpy, easily startled because so much of his attention is elsewhere, on this feeling he just can’t fucking shake.

He knows Dean knows something is up. He can see the way his brother’s looks linger even when he’s keeping their conversations normal, the way Dean is assessing him. He can see it in Dean’s eyes, the way he takes in every twitch and jarring shudder when he has to get Sam’s attention – _again_ – and he can feel Dean’s patience, the way he’s taking it easy with him, walking on eggshells in case he says something to set Sam off. In truth, even Dean’s tenderness is a kind of stifling, too. Dean is giving him space and time and trying to help without pushing and Sam doesn’t even know what it is he needs but a part of him feels dangerous – that part that feels the water climbing up and brushing his lower lip. He wants Dean to be angry and yell, maybe push him or hit him, start a damn fight, because at least that would be real. Maybe it’d snap him out of this place where he feels trapped, maybe it’d force him under once and for all, but then it’d be over, fucking finally. 

Sam is strung out and he’s not sure how much longer he can take this. He knows things are no worse now than ever – in fact, arguably, they aren’t that bad. Surely a missing woman carrying the actual spawn of Satan doesn’t make it into the top five worst things they’ve ever faced, and while the Brits are not to be trusted, they’ve got lots of boots on the ground when it comes to fighting monsters. Not that bad, right? Exactly. So what the everloving fuck is going on?

It’s late, he thinks; he’s not keeping good track of the time. They’re hitting the books again – still – trying desperately to learn anything useful, and his eyelids are the heaviest part of him. He’s made his way to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee for the both, and he’d felt Dean’s scrutinizing gaze on his back while he walked away. The bunker is silent except for what might be the faint drumming of heavy rainfall outside, a distant barrage that echos through some of the vents. Sam always loved the sound of rain and thunderstorms before but at the moment the faraway sounds make the hair raise on the back of his neck. He’s got a chill as he collects the empty carafe from the machine and makes his way over to the sink to fill it. He’s trying to take slow, deep breaths, but his ribs are fighting him on each one, tight and restraining because the water he’s moving through is so, so heavy. His hands shake as he reaches for the tap and the sense of dread in the pit of his stomach builds rapidly, settling like a rock that’s only going to help him sink. He turns on the water and as it rushes down and splashes against the steel, Sam’s whole body shudders violently. His breath rips out of him in a loud and almost painful gasp, and the coffee pot drops into the sink, shattering instantly. 

Sam is frozen where he is, his chest heaving with aborted inhales, choking because he suddenly can’t breathe. This is it, this is the moment, the water running and spilling over the shards of glass the soundtrack to his suffocation as he drowns in this feeling once and for all. He frantically grabs for the edge of the counter with hands still shaking so hard he’s not sure his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, too. He looks for something, anything to focus on while he desperately tries not to collapse on the floor and his eyes drop to a large piece of glass. It’s looks like a crystalline dagger, curved slightly and glistening under the water that runs down along it’s jagged edges and collects in its hollow. He forces his eyes to focus on it but he’s still gasping, lightheaded now as his lungs feel fuller of the wrong substance, his knees wobbling because he’s running out of oxygen. The piercing edge of the glass fragment looks like mercy and the screaming pain in his chest feels like now or never. He reaches for it, releasing the counter, and as his hand closes around it, squeezing and cutting into his fingers, he sways and drops gracelessly to the floor in a crumpled heap.

He’s drowning. The panic is settling in and he’s reckless. He’s sucking in air so desperately that his body feels out of control, floating and weak without oxygen and moving violently with the need. His vision is dark at the edges and all he hears in the deafening roar of water in his ears. He never thought he’d live long or die peacefully but this isn’t how he thought he’d go. He clumsily clutches at the glass, heedless of how it makes his fingers bleed, and he doesn’t hesitate to stab the point into his left hand. He barely registers how it feels except to know that it’s in, he made contact, and he roughly drags the glass down the length of his palm. As the blood rushes the wound and floods over, he takes a deep, shocking breath, and his body goes limp.

In the same moment, he feels the jarring push of contact on his shoulders, his arms and back. Everything is foggy and as the air seeps into his cells his body is heavy in another way now. He’d be slumped on the floor entirely now except he realizes that it’s Dean. _Dean_. Dean is behind him, hands all over, and as the overwhelming thunder of the water recedes it’s replaced with Dean’s voice. Dean is talking incessantly, and Sam can’t make out the words yet but he knows the sound. He lets himself drift towards it. Dean is panicked, and his voice wavers as his hands keep skating all over Sam’s body, tugging him back into the cradle of Dean’s legs, leaning him against Dean’s chest. 

“Sam, Sammy – Jesus – say something. C’mon, little brother, please!” Dean’s words become ring out clear in time with a sharp pain in Sam’s hand. It makes Sam blink and hiss, chasing away some of the grogginess. His eyes focus a little more, too, and he can see that while one of Dean’s arms is wrapped across his chest, keeping him up, the other is wrapped around Sam’s hand where it’s listless in his lap, and Dean’s thumb is digging into the cut he just made, getting covered in Sam’s blood. 

“Dean…” Sam croaks out, his voice hoarse like he’s been screaming, but even that small word sounds slurred or garbled to his own ears. Dean lets out a sigh of relief that turns into a mad kind of laugh.

“God, Sam. Scared the shit outta me, Christ. Hey, you’re alright. You’re alright, okay? Just– stay with me. I’m here. I’ve got you,” Dean urges, and his voice gets softer, just above a murmur. He’s calmer now that Sam has answered him and he keeps his thumb pressed hard into Sam’s palm. It hurts but it feels good, feels like an anchor, so Sam stays lax and lets Dean rock them a little on the kitchen floor. Dean keeps talking, nosing into Sam’s hair and getting his mouth close to his ear, whispering words that blend together but feel soothing nonetheless. Sam just breathes, air and his big brother all around him, reminding him that he’s still alive; he didn’t drown after all. 

Sam’s teeth chatter even as the air goes in and out of his body in a more normal rhythm. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting there, how long Dean has given him to resurface. 

“Sam, you’re going into shock,” Dean’s voice is a lifeline. “I gotta look after your hand and get you warmed up, but I can’t get you off this floor on my own. You gotta help me, okay? Can you do that? Can you help me help you, little brother?” 

Sam knows what Dean is asking. He still feels weak and disconnected from his shaky body, but he knows he can do it because Dean asked him to. He nods minutely and feels Dean hum with approval against the shell of his ear.

“Okay, then. On three, arrite?” Dean counts it out while he shifts behind Sam, getting onto his knees and letting go of Sam’s palm to get his hands hooked in Sam’s armpits. When the pressure disappears from the incision, Sam feels an echoing stab of panic he tries to ignore, instead focusing on Dean’s voice. On three, Dean is starting to stand up, lifting the bulk of Sam’s weight as Sam struggles to get his own feet under him. 

“God, you friggin’ Sasquatch,” Dean laughs, groaning and teasing with no heat at all. Sam is finally up but he’s unsteady and shivering now. Dean gets his arms around him and Sam feels as though he’s somehow tucked in against him, small like he hasn’t been in so many years. His brother leans past him to finally turn off the tap, and then steers Sam out of the kitchen, leaving a mess of glass and blood behind them to clean up later. 

Sam is seven years old again as Dean herds him into his room (Dean’s room – _their_ room) and deposits him on the bed. Sam is aware of what Dean is doing, where they are, but the shock makes him slow and uncoordinated. Dean moves quickly and elegantly in counterpoint, grabbing his med kit and setting it out on the bed beside him. Sam only flinches a little when Dean holds his hand over the garbage can and douses it with alcohol. Dean looks up at him with a lopsided grin, holds his gaze and gives Sam something to focus on for a moment. Sam looks up at him because he’s sitting and not holding himself all the way up, but he misses looking up to Dean. It feel good to be the little brother again. His teeth keep chattering and Dean’s smile falters for a fraction of a second but then it’s back, and he dries off Sam’s hand with a discarded flannel shirt and pushes the garbage can out of the way with his foot. 

“Go easy, Sammy,” Dean cautions gently as he hands the bottle of whiskey to Sam, into his good hand, just before he sets into stitching. Sam nods again and feels a little warmer just because he gets to follow more of Dean’s instructions. He takes little sips and paces himself, doesn’t watch as Dean works because he doesn’t want to know how soon it will be over. The pain is grounding, as are Dean’s hands on his, and he wants to be completely lost in the feeling. 

Dean is done sooner than Sam would like, but as he sets Sam’s bandaged hand down in his lap, he leans forward to kiss Sam’s clammy forehead and Sam chases his mouth a little on instinct, just wanting to be touching. 

Dean lets out a small, gentle laugh when he catches Sam at it. “Almost there, kiddo.”

Sam follows his brother’s movements with blinking eyes and lets Dean undress him, tugging off his boots and all the rest until he’s just in his briefs. He’s nearly naked but his teeth aren’t chattering now. 

As Dean leans past him to pull down the covers, Sam feels the most calm, closest to normal that he’s felt in a long time. Dean takes the bottle of whiskey out from Sam’s fingers and takes a big swig himself before setting it down on the desk behind him. Sam goes easy under Dean’s hands when his brother guides him back and tucks him in. Thirty four years old and he really is still Dean’s little brother. He’ll always be Dean’s little brother and the thought makes his heart swell warmly and his eyes water a little. He wiggles his nose to keep from sniffling and blinks before Dean has a chance to notice.

Sam is on his back and watches while Dean strips down next to the bed, wiggling his hips and winking at Sam over his shoulder as he drops his jeans. Sam laughs and it makes something pleasant come alive low in his belly, makes him feel warm in his cheeks. It feels so, so good after what happened. 

Dean crawls into bed on his side, facing him, and he lifts and arm and his eyebrows to invite Sam in. 

“Come here,” he purrs, and Sam’s heart leaps in his chest. It’s not unpleasant but exciting and Sam can’t believe how good he feels when earlier he thought for sure he was dying, lost completely to something out of his control, something he doesn’t understand. He curls over onto his side, tucking his bandaged hand between him and Dean and he rolls himself in against Dean’s chest, purposefully lower in the bed so he can tuck his head underneath Dean’s chin like he hasn’t outgrown him.

It’s so warm hidden against Dean’s body, and as Dean gets his arms around him it only gets warmer and Sam only feels safer. He melts into Dean and breathes deeply because he can, his ribs don’t fight him or make it hard, and his lungs fill easily with the scent of home – with _Dean_. Dean’s fingers push through Sam’s hair and Sam hums, angling into the touch. Dean hums a happy echo and sighs.

“You really scared me there, Sammy,” Dean whispers against the top of his head. 

Sam takes another big breath.

“I know,” he answers, his voice small. “I really scared me there.” 

Dean’s keeps petting him and he nods. 

“How long has this been brewin’?” He asks, gently; Sam can tell he’s trying not to pry. 

“Dunno…” Sam answers, still muffled where he talks into Dean’s chest. “A while I guess. Maybe a couple weeks.”

Sam can hear Dean swallow and knows his brother is wrestling with how to respond to that, still nodding silently and letting his hands move reassuringly over Sam’s body. Sam knows his brother wants to help – and he does, God, he really does – but not always in ways either of them always understand. The quiet stretches on while Dean keeps looking for the words he wants, and Sam just waits, relaxed, squeezing his fist just to feel the stitches pull.

“Well,” Dean starts, having finally settled it seems. “It’s okay. And… I’m here, Sam. Always gonna be here, little brother. Promise.” 

He punctuates the words with another kiss to the top of Sam’s head. Sam understands what he’s saying – _you can always come to me_ and _it’s okay if you’re scared_ ; _I won’t leave you no matter what_ and _I love you_.

Sam smiles, even as his eyes well up again.

“Okay, Dean,” he whispers back. “I’ll be here, too.” He hopes Dean understands what _he’s_ saying – that he promises to try and and he wants to be here and he loves him. 

Dean gives him a little squeeze and Sam thinks he gets it. 

“G’night, bitch.”

Sam’s eyes close as sleep weighs them down, peaceful now, but his smile only gets larger.

“Night, jerk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, friends. Comments and kudos are love <3


End file.
